


I Needed Someone Like Her

by Ruriair



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriair/pseuds/Ruriair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lambdadelta wants to read Bernkastel's poems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Needed Someone Like Her

"You write poetry, don't you? Let me read it."

Lambdadelta's punishment games often toed the line of what could be considered outrageous, even for a witch—last time Bernkastel had been handfed daifuku until her stomach ruptured, and the time before that had been dipped in boiling chocolate until her body was covered head to toe in both burns and sweet candy, only to have it slowly, torturously licked clean bit by bit (and that's to say nothing of the past, as Lambdadelta seemed to be getting a bit softer these days)—but today Bernkastel had been surprised with something different. It was a simple, humble demand, one that seemed more a request between friends than any sort of penalty. And as shameful as it was to admit to herself, Bernkastel was finding she was infinitely more comfortable with the usual.

Lambdadelta was positioned comfortably, lying on top of the bed on her stomach and swinging her legs back and forth in a rhythmic, steady motion while humming contentedly, with the notebook spread open in front of her. Its pages were slightly crinkled, and the writing, particularly on the first several entries of the book, was worn out and faded—not so much that it was too much of a challenge to make out, but enough to give an impression of exactly how long this collection of writing had been around. It was as old as the witch who wrote it herself, the single window into a bitter black cat's just-barely-still-beating heart throughout every age of her existence.

Sipping at a half-filled cup of her favorite tea, Bernkastel did her best to project her usual air of dry indifference—but there was an anxiety slowly eating away at her stomach, an irritation causing her to grind her teeth together until they felt like they could very well crack, a sensation that felt far more painful and humiliating than the most torturous punishment she'd been put through thus far. Perhaps after all these years, she thought to herself bitterly, Lambda had finally wised up enough to move past all her pointlessly over-the-top bluster and learned to start digging the knife in where it actually hurt. Too bad it wasn't really an accomplishment Bernkastel felt like congratulating at the moment.

That book laid out what were some of Bernkastel's most vulnerable moments bare to see. They contained a part of herself that even she had every intention of locking out of sight; there was writing from her earliest past, written lost inside that hellish labyrinth when there was nothing to do but sip wine and scratch down carefully crafted words as a way of having a good laugh at the farce of a fate she had found herself trapped in, spinning that apathetic desperation of hers into something tangible and constructive. There were sporadic entries from the thousands of years she had lived afterwards as well. Bernkastel was by no stretch a sentimental person, but every once in a while even she would find herself with reflective musings on the existence she was and the life she led, only to weave them into a web of pretty words, then quickly shut the book to leave those thoughts out of her sight and swiftly forgotten, tucked away in some lonely corner. Writing was an outlet for Bernkastel, a way to expel unwanted emotions productively and neatly. Therefore her poems were something she rarely felt the desire to go back and read, and something she wanted even less to be read by others.

Being ordered to share those unwanted pieces of herself felt like ridicule, and for all her attempted show of disinterest, left her purple eyes constantly flicking over to steal anxious glances at the other witch's expression, like a fledgling artist impatiently awaiting evaluation from a harsh critic for the first time. Probably the worst part of all was Lambdadelta's uncharacteristic lack of reaction. There was no sneer, no playful and cutting sarcasm, not even a fawning squeal of how her precious Bern had such a lovely way with words. She simply skimmed each page with nothing to offer for it but her constant, merry hum, amber eyes taking in the words from a countenance that was hard to describe as anything but content.

Such a satisfied smile couldn't read to Bernkastel as anything but a subtle mockery at that moment. Was the other so happy to have exposed something of hers that was meant to remain a secret covered in dust, or did she just enjoy seeing her struggle not to squirm in her seat? A murmur escaped Lambdadelta's lips as she read through one of the poems, the kind of subconscious muttering one does when they think deeply on something, unaware that their thoughts have run away and turned into words of their own accord—" _but by the seventh time, this all becomes a farce comedy_ "—and Bernkastel had to do all she could to restrain herself from ripping the book from the blonde's gaze right then and there.

It felt like that torturous almost-silence might never end, with only Lambdadelta's makeshift music and occasional murmuring and Bernkastel's impatient tapping at the side of her teacup hanging in the air, but eventually it was cut short as Lambdadelta closed the book shut with a satisfying snap. With one hand resting on the cover of the book and her eyes closed, she simply said, "It was interesting. Thank you."

Bernkastel stared incredulously, waiting for something more, but it didn't come.

"Was that satisfying enough of a punishment for you?" she eventually asked to break the silence. The words were supposed to sound mocking and sarcastic, as if to prove how little she cared for the whole ordeal and how much of a waste Lambdadelta should've considered it, but instead they came out loaded with venom. But Bernkastel couldn't care enough to curse herself for that mistake. She was _angry_. She had been forced to sit there like a fool as the other girl had perused her most hidden thoughts at her leisure, with not a single word offered in exchange. Surely she had been quietly mocking every vulnerable, sentimental thought she had uncovered, purposely leaving that silence hanging so as to leave the other on edge, digging into an open wound and then leaving it to fester. It was a truly clever, well-thought plan, and one that left Bernkastel adequately shaking with rage even after she had seen through to the core of it.

Then. The single, simple look Lambdadelta shot her in response to those words shattered the accumulation of bitter thoughts and accusations she had built up in her mind completely.

Lambdadelta was good at faking things. This was something Bernkastel had come to realize during all the time they had played together—sometimes she'd play dumb when she really knew an answer, once in a while she'd throw a game, and every now and then she'd make a more forced display of cheerfulness than it seemed she was really feeling. There were times when Bernkastel could tell, and there were also times where she didn't care enough to pick apart face value from what possibly lied under the surface, choosing to simply take things as they appeared instead. But the expression on her face right now was something different. Even Bernkastel, as skeptical as she always was of another person's motives, as much as she knew Lambdadelta could be a truly impressive actor when she wanted to be, could tell: if there was any word to describe that look, it was genuine. Those eyes were upturned with faint traces of surprise, boring into Bernkastel's own expression to see through to what she was being accused of, then quietly pleading innocent to those intentions. Bernkastel found herself struck by that expression, the most purely honest one she could remember seeing on that childishly round face in years.

After a few fleeting moments, however, that look dissolved from her face, reappearing in the form of her usual mischievous grin. "Okay, now it's the great Lambdadelta's turn to leave her mark in this book, too!"

Bernkastel's lips pursed. "I don't remember giving you permission to write in there."

"Suck it up," the blonde witch, not appearing the least bit daunted, replied in that singsong voice of hers that sounded halfway between words and a giggle. An elegant quill pen appeared out of thin air, landing comfortably between gloved fingers. "This is part of the punishment! The loser doesn't get to complain!"

Lambdadelta began scratching away at a blank page, the tip of her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth to show how deep she was in concentration. She would quickly scribble down a few words, pause as if to think about what to write next, then resume writing in a flurry. Bernkastel often felt tempted to look over her shoulder at what she was writing, but showing such active interest would feel like losing in a way, and the other was likely to cover it up and whine about how she wasn't allowed to look until it was finished, anyway.

Eventually, an exaggerated flourish of the quill pen and a satisfied giggle signified that the witch's work was complete. With a bright and self-satisfied smile, she passed the book over to the one who had been waiting, who looked down at the words with her usual deadpan expression.

_"Some of the words you use are a little too grand_

_But for the most part I think even paper can understand_

_I'll be there anywhere you turn_

_I love you, Bern!_ "

Bernkastel wasn't the sentimental type. She wasn't interested in poring over and picking apart literature written by others to find the hidden meaning and emotions under the surface. But the message that this stupid, simple, unpolished, amateurish piece of trash Lambda called a poem was trying to convey was as plain as day to her.

"Idiot," she huffed, shutting the book with a decisive snap and biting back the smile threatening to poke at the corners of her mouth.


End file.
